He hasn't felt the warmth of another's breath in too long. Many nights are spent with only his own air painting clouds beneath his lips. Bathed in the cold dark, the cabin flinches with every ask of the wind, it's floorboards ache under each step within, yet his body only shivers from it's isolation. Untentative ripples, pure in their commitment to the fall of sensibility and control; never to have those windows repaned again. See now how the gusts of wind tear the cloth from his body. Colder colder, and even more lonesome. Here he sits with no hammer, no nail, lamenting and moaning, expecting a ship in the woods to come and set sail with the morning.